


A Coming Into Being

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-05
Updated: 2009-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Harry's road of self-destruction has reached a point, where he either can't or doesn't want to be helped. A whole universe was created in seven days; is that enough to rekindle a slaked will to live? Set at the beginning of the sixth year. Canon pairings implied.





	1. On Monday the Night Is Over the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON MONDAY THE NIGHT IS OVER THE VOID**

_"And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep." Genesis 1:2_

Harry stared gloomily at his own distorted reflection in the pristine plate.

"Harry? Harry! Hello-o-o, somebody home there?" Ron tapped him on the head lightly.

"What?" Harry snapped more irritably than he'd intended, and Ron exchanged looks with Hermione.

"You all right, Harry?"

Even Hermione's genuine concern grated on his nerves and he got up from the Gryffindor table suddenly. "I'm off to bed."

"Wha- but, Harry, the feast's not even started yet," Ron said bemusedly.

Harry paid no attention to either the murmur of the students or the severe frowns from the High Table as he walked towards the Entrance Hall, where McGonagall was giving her usual introductory speech to the cluster of scared-looking first-years.

"Your House will be your home here, and it's a great privilege-"

"Excuse me," Harry mumbled, pushing roughly past McGonagall and through the small crowd.

McGonagall quickly recovered from the shock of being interrupted and demanded some explanation. Naturally, at the mention of his name, excited murmur and curious stares ensued, but Harry ignored these too, never stopping in his tracks.

The Professor watched the hunched figure retreat and decided that she should get on with the matter at hand and deal with the sixth-year later. With a stern "Now pay attention, please!" she managed to shift the first-years' focus back to herself.

The sounds and smells of the Great Hall diminished gradually as Harry aimlessly climbed the numerous staircases. The place that he'd once considered his real home now held a foreign feel to it, and he himself seemed strangely detached and out of place.

A pile of dead stone. Yes, that's where he was.

***

The only reason Harry showed up for breakfast the next morning was to collect the timetable. He had to endure ten minutes of agitated Hermione and fidgety Ron, both of whom kept nagging him about where he'd spent the night, until Professor McGonagall descended from the teacher's table and walked down the aisle, discussing the sixth-years' O.W.L. Results, and filling in their timetables accordingly.

"Mr. Potter," she was finally here and consulted a sheet of paper, "I see you've done well on Charms and Transfiguration and... two Outstanding’s - Defence against the Dark Arts and Potions!"

Harry didn't bother to respond.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter, you may pursue the subjects you've applied for," McGonagall tapped his timetable and smiled encouragingly at him.

Harry accepted the proffered paper automatically and rose from the table, leaving three pairs of worried eyes in his wake.

Potions was marked down as the first lesson of the day and with a sigh he turned towards dungeons. When Harry appeared, the handful of students, who had managed to face up to Snape's requirements and be admitted in the class, were already there: a couple of Ravenclaw’s and some Slytherin’s, Malfoy, of course, was one of them.

"What're you doing down here, Golden Boy?" Malfoy sneered at him unpleasantly. "What does Dumbledore need his half-wit arse-licker to take Potions for?"

Harry leaned one shoulder against the wall and didn't reply anything.

"Or was it the Minister, Potty?" Malfoy carried on in a musing tone. "Must've been a whole summer licking a bunch of different arses to get that Outstanding, huh, Potter? Because-"

The blond boy never had the chance to finish, as Harry suddenly leapt forward and punched him in the face, then, as if nothing had happened, stepped back and resumed his place by the wall, staring ahead.

Malfoy howled, clutching at his bleeding nose. "You bloody little shit, I'll show you-" He took a step towards Harry, the right fist raised for retaliation, when the Potions class door opened and a sour Snape appeared in the corridor.

"Mr. Malfoy, what is the meaning of this?"

"He broke my nose, is what happened," Malfoy screeched, pointing at Harry. "The idiot just-"

"See yourself to the Infirmary, Mr. Malfoy," Snape cut him off.

Malfoy glared resentfully at the Professor and Harry at being discarded so easily, but when Snape didn't grant his wish of another public Potter-humiliation, he sauntered off.

"Mr. Potter, stay behind, the rest of you – get inside," Snape ordered.

The students shuffled in nervously and the door was closed.

Snape addressed Harry, "You may have achieved an Outstanding in your O.W.L., Mr. Potter but if you wish to stay in my class, you will not raise a hand to other students, is that clear?"

Harry glanced at the Potions Master and shrugged indifferently. "Sure... sir."

"Ten points from Gryffindor for your outburst and a detention tonight," Snape said and opened the classroom door. "In."

With another shrug, Harry obliged, heading straight for the back of the room, where he slumped into the seat and took out his Potions kit. Snape began the lesson right on cue with the shrill sound of the bell, but Harry didn't care to listen. Instead he pretended to dutifully take notes, while scribbling away on the parchment.

etc etc period etc etc period

Somehow the monotony seemed to dull the aching emptiness in his chest, and Harry concentrated hard on the way his quill slid over the surface of the parchment, the way the ink left its wet trail behind, forming meaningless letters: etc etc etc period.

And so on and on until the end.

"Mr. Potter!" Snape's sharp voice startled Harry and he pulled away from his parchment, looking around dazedly, as if he had no idea, where he was.

"How do you imagine yourself making the Draught of Living Death with these notes, Mr. Potter?" Snape had snatched up his parchment at some point and was now brandishing it before Harry's eyes.

Harry met Snape's gaze and they stared at each other for a second, before the boy ripped the piece of parchment back out of the Professor's hand and said nonchalantly, "I imagine making it like a soup, Professor. After all, the living dead don't give a damn about what's shoved down their throats, do they?"

Even the Slytherin’s from the front of the classroom surveyed Harry somewhat admiringly, although Snape's mask of a face displayed no emotion as usual. "Get out of my class, Potter," was all he said.

"With pleasure," Harry replied, shoving the scarce paraphernalia into his bag. He stood up, mock-bowed to Snape and left the dumbfounded class behind.

It hadn't been more than twenty or so minutes into the lesson and Hogwarts was very quiet, save for water dripping somewhere in the distance, sending its echoes through the labyrinth of dungeons. The adrenaline rush from the short exchange with Snape was fading away fast and Harry was once again left alone with his dreary thoughts. He strolled along the corridors slowly, his gaze fixed on the dank flagstones beneath his feet.

One step at a time. Moving forward. One step after another. What for?

Harry turned a corner and clashed with somebody.

"Hey, watch it!" Malfoy's face flushed, when he realized it was Harry. He opened his mouth to say something but Harry beat him to it - grabbing Malfoy by the front of his robes, Harry slammed him forcefully into the rough stone wall.

"You listen to me and you listen good, ferret," Harry hissed, his face inches away from Malfoy's. "If you want to keep your nose and-" his gaze swept over the Slytherin "-the rest of your limbs the way they are, I suggest you keep out of my hair. Got it?"

He didn't wait for an answer but turned on his heel and resumed his leisurely pace towards the Entrance Hall. Only when Harry disappeared from his sight, did Malfoy shake himself out of his stupor, muttering about “nutter’s,” and headed the other way towards the Potions classroom.

***

Ginny scanned the Gryffindor Common Room and frowned. Clutching the note in her hand more firmly she walked over to the hearth, where Hermione and Ron were doing their homework.

"Hey, Hermione!" Ginny greeted and Hermione smiled, beckoning her over. "Have you seen Harry? McGonagall wants to see him in her office."

Hermione's smile instantly slid off her lips and she looked glumly at Ron, who informed his sister, "We haven't seen him at all since breakfast."

"He was in Potions, though," Hermione added, "I heard Professor Snape speaking with Prof- oh! Harry!"

The portrait hole had swung open to admit their friend but Harry didn't even spare them a glance and simply continued towards the boy's dormitories. The three Gryffindor’s exchanged confused looks.

"Harry, hold up!" Ginny called and to her relief Harry paused at the foot of the spiral staircase. "Well, someone's in a bad mood today," she said jokingly, coming up to him.

A whiff of some smell she had always associated with the pubs and half-drunk football fans down in the village caught her and Ginny scrunched up her nose.

"Have you been smoking, Harry?" she asked incredulously.

"What's up with you, mate?" Ron and Hermione had joined them by now, but Harry just stared back at Ginny morosely.

"Harry," Hermione gently touched his arm. "Sirius wouldn't have wanted for you to clam up like this. We're your friends, talk to us."

Harry turned towards Hermione, and she was taken aback by the almost vicious smirk that somehow seemed grotesque on her friend's face.

"Oh, so you think Sirius wouldn't've wanted this, do you?" Harry asked contemptuously. "Yeah, I can see you walking up to him and saying, ‘Hey, Sirius, what d'you think Harry should do, if you snuff it, huh?’."

The other three stared at him silently and Harry gave a bitter laugh, addressing Hermione again. "Don't give me this rubbish about Sirius wanting something or not, all right?"

"Harry, we're your friends," Hermione's voice held a pleading note. She extended her hand, as if to take Harry's but he grabbed it rudely like he had Malfoy earlier and whispered dangerously, "We're not friends, you slag, so piss off!"

"Hey!" Ron pushed him angrily against the wall, his hand closing around Harry's throat, and he could feel the red-heads hitched breath in his face. "If you're so full of crap, Harry, at least don't take it out on others!"

Now the whole Common Room had gone silent and everyone was watching the on goings between the four.

"Ron, you're suffocating him!" Ginny tried to pry Ron's fingers off of Harry but he wouldn't relent. Harry's face was rapidly turning from red to puce and only then with a disgusted grunt did Ron let him go, and he fell to the floor, sputtering and gasping for air.

"What are you goggling at, huh?" Ron shouted at the room in general and stalked off back towards the armchairs by the fireplace, and after a moment a teary-eyed Hermione followed.

The Gryffindor’s hurriedly lowered their heads, as if they had been minding their business all along. Harry slowly got up, massaging his abused throat. He started towards the fireplace but Ginny stopped him and said seriously, "Drop it, Harry, you can pick fights later. Right now McGonagall wants to see you."

She thrust the note in Harry's palm and disappeared in the direction of the girls' quarters. For a moment something wistful entered Harry's eyes as he watched Ginny vanish up the stairs, but then the moment was gone and, setting his jaw, Harry marched out of the Gryffindor tower.

So McGonagall was waiting for him? Probably, Snape was there, too. And Dumbledore with his disappointed blue gaze.

Moving forward, one step at a time. What for?

"Enter."

Harry walked into the brightly lit office. Surprisingly, McGonagall was alone.

"Take a seat, Mr. Potter."

Harry did.

McGonagall considered him for the longest moment and he was dimly aware of the need to feel or, at least, look ashamed of himself but, in truth, he couldn't muster the strength to feel anything but indifference and disinterest or the occasional bout of inexplicable fury these days.

"I am unpleasantly surprised, Mr. Potter..."

McGonagall was talking. Harry saw her mouth moving, her lips forming this letter and that, her tongue shooting out once or twice to moisten the parched upper lip, but there were no comprehensible words. She was a badly tuned radio station that didn't make much sense.

"...achievements will determine, how well..."

What had he achieved but death? Of others and himself. There was no difference, just a paradox: life after death; death before life. Dead before lived; lived before died. Had he?

"...not only your N.E.W.T. year, but the rest of your life..."

Harry almost let his tongue slip and said that he doubted there would be any new year or a N.E.W.T. year, for that matter.

"Are you listening to me, Mr. Potter?"

Harry started and looked at his Professor. "Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, I agree," he nodded earnestly to add a little more conviction to his words.

McGonagall studied him dubiously but didn't press it, and with the last bit of information that he was to serve a detention per every lesson he had missed out on plus today's one with Snape, Harry was dismissed.

Last and prevail – one day at a time. What for?


	2. On Tuesday the Deep Waters Surge

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON TUESDAY THE DEEP WATERS SURGE**

_"And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so." Genesis 1:7_

Harry took the fag out of his mouth, exhaling the smoke slowly. The lake's surface rippled slightly in the breeze, and the deformed shapes of the Forest's trees moved with it.

The day had proved to be a dreary and draining affair, and Harry now used the time before his detention with Snape to relax from all the hustle and bustle in the quiet seclusion of his spot. He toyed idly with the idea of not showing up again, Snape becoming mad, Dumbledore, as usual, sad, Harry... giving them the finger.

He hadn't spoken to anyone throughout the day, although at times Hermione's woeful gaze had been on him, and he could tell that she longed to approach him, but Ron... Ron was there, at her side, and when he had caught her eyes lingering on Harry, he had put a protective arm around her shoulders and steered her away as if Harry had some contagious malady. Funny that by pushing them both away he had pushed them together. That was how the irony of life worked, he supposed. Sarcasm, more like.

He chuckled a hollow and humourless laugh and hurled the cigarette-butt into the water, where, with a hissing sound, it went out and remained floating on the spot.

The fire is out. Such a weight it is, the tons of water on the shoulders. Crushed, the fire is.

Harry snarled angrily and, turning on his heel, started to walk as fast as he could back towards the castle as if hoping to leave those thoughts back there, on the lake-bank, to run away, to outrun himself and the damn pity he felt for his wretched self.

Voldemort was right. He was nothing but a pathetic weakling.

Harry stopped abruptly, changing his mind. The despair that generated his frustration was becoming too much to cope; he needed to blank it out. He debated for a moment, whether Kreacher or Dobby would be the best elf for the job he had in mind and settled on Kreacher – while he felt repulsed by the mere idea of seeing the little scum, the old elf could be bound to secrecy, whereas Dobby, though always eager to be of service, was a free elf and, therefore, undependable in the present circumstances.

“Kreacher!”

The elf appeared out of thin air and fixed his bulging eyes on Harry.

“Master.” He bowed his disproportionally large head. “What request does Master have of Kreacher?”

Harry eyed the elf distastefully. “Get me a bottle of Firewhiskey. And I don't care how you do that, you traitorous slime, just get it.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher croaked.

“No, wait, on the second thought, make it two.”

“Yes, Master,” the elf bowed again and Disapparated.

Harry made his way slowly back to the lake and sat down, leaning his back against a beech tree. He didn't have to wait more than a couple of minutes before Kreacher was back with two dusty Firewhiskey bottles.

“Don't dare to breathe a word to anyone about this or your head will join your mother back in Grimmauld Place, got it?” Harry said aggressively, snatching the bottles from the elf.

“As Master wishes.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

Kreacher disappeared and, wasting no time, Harry uncorked the first bottle, tilted it back and started gulping down like he hadn't drunk in ages. He knew how it worked – the pungent liquid burnt his throat, burnt his eyes and burnt away the aches. It was the easy way out, he was well aware of that, but it didn't change the fact that alcohol gave a sense of completion; the shattered pieces came together and he was whole again, he was at peace with himself and the world. It didn't matter that the uplift of his spirits lasted for an hour or two at the most, only to be plunged into an even deeper darkness thereafter because the ambient shadow was the same hue above and below.

Half a bottle later Harry felt warm and content. In a way his thoughts were clearer now, and he could reflect on things without getting all worked up. There was still darkness within, but rather than recoil, he embraced it because it didn't scare him any more. So what if people around him died? Everyone had to, sooner or later. He, himself, would die, too – but that was an intangible future somewhere beyond the horizon. There could be hundreds of prophecies prognosticating his death; hundreds of mad, power-thirsty Lords, for all Harry cared, and if Voldemort himself would show up right now, Harry would offer him a shot of the whiskey and a story about a bollocksed childhood in lieu of an epic duel.

The boy supported himself against the tree-trunk and rose slowly to his feet, a grin plastered on his face. Evidently, he was already beyond a little tipsy and the world reeled sickeningly before coming into focus. He stuffed the second bottle in his rucksack and stumbled forward through the bumpy marshland, taking a regular swig of the Firewhiskey. The dusk had already fallen and his feet got caught up in the clumps of grass and puddles of muddy water, but he didn't pay attention to his trainers that were getting soaked because now the need kicked in. The need to talk, to explain things – didn't matter to whom or what. He needed an audience.

A mountain of light shone behind the thicket and Harry struggled his way through the brambles towards the lit-up castle.

Maybe he should seek out Ginny and tell her... something, anything... that he hadn't meant to be such a prat yesterday... that he would make things right again; he would apologise to everyone about anything at all, and fuck Voldemort; there was no Voldemort, there didn't have to be... they could run away because he liked her, he liked her very much; that she made him want to…

“No,” Harry shook his head emphatically so that he had to stop and wait a moment before the spinning ceased and Hogwarts was in front of him again. “Wasted idea, Harry.”

Dumbledore, perhaps, then. Yes, he could go and tell him to stuff the stupid prophecy in the place where the sun didn't shine because today, right now, Harry didn't want to die, didn't want to be the Chosen One, didn't want to fight Voldemort or any other ruddy snake-face bastard. Right now, he wanted to live, be as ordinary and typical as any other teenager – take Ginny on a date, play Quidditch, go home for the holidays, where his father would ruffle his hair affectionately and his mother would bake gingerbread for Christmas Eve...

“Arrgh. Shite.”

He had entered the mushy stage of the drinking, and it probably wouldn't take long before he'd want to curl up and sob his heart out. Harry raised the bottle and gulped it empty to flush down the unwanted mood at least temporarily. He tossed the bottle aside and resumed staggering up towards the castle.

It seemed he had spent more time down by the Lake than it had originally felt, and supper had to be over because there was not a single soul in the Entrance Hall. Where to now? Harry stood, swaying, until the recollection that he had a detention tonight entered his dizzy head and he careened sideways towards the dungeons, dispatching the voice that lurked at the back of his head, saying that showing up before Snape, smashed, had to be an even stupider idea than going to Dumbledore.

The dim torchlight was doing nothing for his blurry vision, and Harry pulled at every door, unsure, whether he was even in the right corridor; unsure, what exactly the right corridor was and whom he had set out to look for. The further he went, the more frenzied his thoughts and efforts became: the need was growing ever greater, the need for a human being, the need to share the smothering emptiness, to speak and speak, and speak, to vomit all the tangled-up thoughts and confusion like a poisonous tumour.

Finally one of the doors relented to his savage pulling and Harry fumbled inside.

“You're only an hour and a half late, Po-” Snape stilled, as the young Gryffindor swaggered in front of his desk, tripped over his own feet and fell face-down on the floor.

“You're drunk, Potter,” the Professor stated the obvious.

“Yeah,” Harry snickered, rolling over. He gave up the attempts of getting to his feet again and remained in a sitting position, turning his eyes to where he thought was approximately the location of Snape's head. “I think I am.”

The Professor stared stiffly down at the boy, while he ransacked his school-bag, throwing out sheets of parchment, quills, and books that piled up all around him.

“Aha!” Harry cried withdrawing his remaining Firewhiskey. “There it is. Want some? No? Well, suit yourself.” He opened the bottle and took a long swallow, then smacked his lips and looked up at the silently watching Snape.

“Who are you again? Snape? Yeah, you look like a Snape. You know what?” Harry began, waving the bottle in the Professor's direction, “Maybe you're not that bad after all. Of course, you can be a downright prick sometimes, makes me want to bang Piers' head against the wall, when he and Dudley start running; there are only so many alleys you can lose them in, you know, but I wouldn't blame my dad, I mean, you, for being – what did I call him? - A bully, yes, for being... whatever. And you know what, Snape? Maybe Sirius was a goddamn prick like you, too, and Diddikins with his boxing gloves hanging on the wall, picking on freaks, you and me like, you know, so we're sort of even, don't you think?”

“I'm afraid I don't quite follow your train of thought, Mr. Potter,” Snape said rigidly.

“Yeah, me neither,” Harry chuckled and took another gulp from the bottle. The last days of little sleep were taking their toil and his eyelids were drooping lower.

“I think I need to get to bed now,” the boy informed his Professor. “Nice chatting with you and all but there's that bed somewhere up there and Hermione shouts at Ron; no, at me she might shout because... for what? Oh, yeah, because I don't sleep in my bed and Ron, you know he's a real telltale, when it comes to Hermione. He likes Hermione, you know that? And Hermione's friends with Ginny... she tells Hermione... calling her names and they shouldn't hang around me, especially, Ginny, you know, because... I called Hermione names and then Ron... ah, fuck, I forgot, what's it got to do with Ron? Bah, doesn't matter. I'm off.”

Harry got on all fours and crawled towards the door, leaving all his belongings behind. Steadying himself on the door handle, he managed with a lot of cursing and puffing to drag himself up but that seemed to have cost all his leftover strength, and he rested his forehead against the wood, ready to fall asleep right there and then.

“I'll take you, Mr. Potter,” Snape was suddenly beside him and gripped his upper arm.

Harry looked blearily sideways. “Yeah. Take me to Voldemort, if you want, I don't give a shit. Does Voldemort have a spare bed?”

“You're not on his list of guests tonight, Mr. Potter. Now, come.”


	3. On Wednesday the Man is an Island

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON WEDNESDAY THE MAN IS AN ISLAND**

_"And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas (..)." Genesis 1:10_

Darkness.

It couldn't have been more than two or three hours of sleep. Harry blinked and lifted his woozy head a little. The scarce moonlight filtered through the high-arched windows of the Hospital Wing. How had he got there? He raked his numb brain: the Lake, there he had begun; Voldemort, prophecies, dying... he had wanted to speak with Ginny about it, or was it Dumbledore? He couldn't recall clearly, whether talking with the Headmaster and Ginny was real or his fancy playing tricks on him.

Torches in a corridor: the remembrance of some sort of yearning for a reprieve, pining for an understanding that had something to do with pulling doors, looking for someone. Where the hell had he gone?

Harry moaned in frustration. It was maddening and alarming not to have the memory of the yesterday’s happenings. He just hoped that he hadn't met anyone, hadn't been given the chance to spill his guts like it always happened at Privet Drive. He wanted more Firewhiskey, and he wanted it now to drown the shame of having sunk so low once more; he wanted to live in a perpetual unawareness instead of a ceaseless nightmare.

He was so royally fucked up.

Harry groped around the night table and his fingertips brushed over his glasses and wand. No Firewhiskey. Not even a glass of water from the usually thoughtful Madam Pomfrey. He swung his legs over the bedside to go over to the sink and have a mouthful, but the alcohol, still circulating his system, made him feverish and his rapidly beating heart and spinning head were nauseating. He dropped back on the bed heavily and closed his eyes, willing himself to go back to sleep.

The next time he came to, it was broad daylight and a hangover was in full bloom. For a moment he expected Hermione's bushy hair to loom over him, concern and disapproval in her eyes, or Ron's hand clapping him on a shoulder and a light comment that would make Hermione frown severely, but then he remembered that such heart-warming episodes belonged to earlier days. Not anymore.

Alone in a frozen desert.

“Finally awake, Mr. Potter? About time, too.”

Harry squinted at Madam Pomfrey.

“What time is it?” the hoarse voice sounded alien to his ears.

“Time for you to get up, Mr. Potter, the Headmaster is waiting for you in his office. Come on now,” Madam Pomfrey put one hand behind his back to sit him up.

“I'm not an invalid,” Harry croaked feebly, forgetting that is was pointless to rebel against the matron in her domain.

“You'd do well to follow my instructions, young man,” Madam Pomfrey said sternly. “You're neither the first, nor the last one to end up in the Hospital Wing intoxicated. Drink this; it will make you feel a little better.”

“Whatever it is, I don't need it.”

The booming pulse in his temples and the dry throat were screaming the contrary, but he couldn't; wouldn't endure the patronising. Harry shoved his glasses up his nose, grabbed his wand and stood up. It was a good thing that whoever had brought him here hadn't cared enough to change him into the pyjamas, so, turning a deaf ear to Madam Pomfrey's indignant tutting, Harry made his shaky way to the exit. His luck had it that a fourth-year Ravenclaw had been brought in earlier with a fractured leg and chose that moment to groan aloud in pain, diverting the Healer's attention, or she would have probably followed Harry out in the hallway and dragged him back by the roots of his hair.

Harry's languid steps carried him through the corridors and past the occasional student who wasn't outside enjoying the sunny afternoon.

The physical and moral hangover was nothing new to him. He took a masochistic pleasure in the pounding head and dulled mind as if it were a reminder of his self-condemnation. There was only one direction to go from the lowest point and it was downwards. He had learnt to quell the fear that gnawed at his heart about getting in over his head; the fear that told him that with every drink he poured down to silence his demons, he was driving himself towards irrevocable ruination. But as the need for that short respite of blackout grew more frequent over time, so did the fear and memory, of why he did it in the first place. He was vaguely aware that it had to be guilt. About Sirius and perhaps, Cedric. At times he would try and resurrect their faces and voices in his mind to elicit some reaction from himself. More often than not, it didn't work. They had become mere phantoms, just like his guilt, and, occasionally, he was ashamed of that and of his incapability to be the brave Gryffindor who met difficulties head-on. So he drank again. Punished himself again and forgot.

“Password?”

“The Headmaster's waiting for me,” Harry's voice was barely audible.

The Gargoyle cocked its head, as if considering him, then moved aside and Harry stepped on the revolving stairs.

Despite his overall callous emotional state he felt a bit queasy about the upcoming interview, and the closer he came to the door, the more his stomach churned. Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He didn't understand why he was tensing up so much; why he suddenly wanted to sit down on the stone steps and weep.

He rapped lightly the griffin-knocker against the door and Dumbledore's voice bade him to enter.

“Ah, yes, Harry, do sit down,” Dumbledore pointed to the hard-backed chair in front of his desk that was littered with parchments and thick files.

Professor McGonagall was sitting in another chair to the right, and Harry was a little startled to see Snape's foreboding stature hovering by a shadowed wall. Dumbledore took his time finishing a letter, and Harry's nerves combined with the hangover made him more nauseous than ever. He just wanted it to be over and done with and then crawl under a rock and forget that he existed.

“So, Harry,” Dumbledore finally put his quill aside and regarded the boy before him. “I received most disturbing news this morning.”

Harry swallowed around the bile in his throat.

“Professor Snape here informed me that you showed up late and inebriated for your detention last night. Is this true?”

He didn't have to ask what “inee-something” was. He nodded weakly and the Headmaster looked deeply disappointed like he had hoped that his Potions Master had misinformed him only to spite Harry.

Dumbledore opened his mouth but, whatever he was about to say, was interrupted by the arrival of a handsome barn owl. Silence blanketed the office as the Headmaster inspected the script on the heavy envelope, his brows knitting together.

“Hmm, it should not have arrived... could it be?” Dumbledore murmured, tearing his eyes away from the letter and gazing off into the distance pensively.

McGonagall shifted in her seat impatiently. “Albus?”

“Mmm? Oh, yes, yes. Where were we?” the headmaster returned to the present.

“Discussing Mr. Potter's behaviour,” McGonagall said sharply.

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore turned to the boy. ”Now, Harry, there's no need for me to stress how serious this breach of the school rules is. I am confident you have enough common sense to realize that such occurrences cannot be excused, nor tolerated to repeat themselves.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said softly.

The owl on Dumbledore's desk hooted, flapping its wings and the Headmaster glanced at it briefly.

“Professor McGonagall will have to inform your relatives, of course,” Dumbledore paused again as the owl pecked his finger. “And you are impermanently suspended from the Quidditch team to-” he found an owl treat to appease the agitated bird “-serve a detention every night of the week, Sundays excluded.”

For some reason Harry's throat felt too tight to speak and he just nodded, even though Dumbledore's gaze wasn't on him but the envelope again.

“That would be all then, Harry. You may go.”

The Headmaster untied the missive and the owl immediately took off, giving a raucous cry, but Harry had eyes only for the man in front of him. He forgot all about wondering why McGonagall hadn't bitten his head off the moment he entered, or why Snape hadn't said a word at all – no jibes, no scathing innuendos about his heritage, no hateful sneers, no nothing.

No nothing.

Harry rose lethargically from his chair, a deadened expression on his face. “Good-day, sir.”

Dumbledore was already so engrossed in the letter that he didn't even hear the subdued words, or the door closing moment's later behind Harry's stooping figure.

“And that's it?” McGonagall's thin lips were pressed in a mutinous line. “Albus Dumbledore, I am speaking to you!”

“Mm?” the Headmaster looked at her distractedly.

“You have just dismissed Mr. Potter like any other first-year, who has discovered that Filch is most riled up by Dung Bombs!”

Snape stepped forward, speaking for the first time, “He needs help, Headmaster.”

“You don't give him enough credit,” Dumbledore waved their concerns aside. “Harry is stronger than you think.”

“Or not as strong as you would like to think!” McGonagall's voice whipped through the air.

“Oh, tosh,” Dumbledore burrowed through the mess on his desk to find a clean parchment. “Harry is a very sensible young man, and I am positive this was a one-off error on his part.”

He bent low over the parchment and started writing busily. McGonagall made a helpless gesture and left the office, banging the door shut behind her, while Snape moved to the fireplace to Floo to his own quarters but paused and looked back at the Headmaster. “This wouldn't be the first time, Headmaster, that you're so immersed in finding a way to destroy the Dark Lord that you fail to notice people destroying themselves right under your nose.”

Dumbledore looked up, surprised, but the Potions Master had already been swallowed up by the green flames.

***

Hands gripped the sides of the same sink that concealed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Ragged breath clouded the mirror and bloodshot eyes stared back at him. There was nothing behind the green irises. And there was everything.

Harry doubled over and retched out the little that was in his stomach. He could feel the acidic taste of vomit in his mouth as well as his nose and remained bent over, breathing heavily, while his trembling fingers closed around the tap. Yellowish squirt gushed out, and then changed to a lucid stream that Harry gathered in his palms, splashing over his face and rinsing his mouth.

Another convulsion shook his body but it wasn't the rebelling stomach. Harry dashed frantically the water on his face again but that terrifying thing did not leave him; instead, it swelled and expanded, until he couldn't hold it any longer, and it exploded in his chest. The single dry sob ripped from him. The sob that had been born in the depths of a dark cupboard, where a little boy had curled up, cold and lonely.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” he hit his head against the mirror wildly.

There was no solace for the little boy. He had to be kept locked away.

“You'll have to repair that, you know.”

Moaning Myrtle's disrupted face looked at Harry curiously from the cracked glass. “What are you doing in my toilet again? Brewing more potions?”

Harry quickly dried his face on his shirtsleeve and turned the water off.

“You look like a death warmed up, Harry Potter. Are you ill? Are you going to die?” Myrtle sounded hopeful.

Harry didn't respond, walking over to the door.

“Fine! Ignore me just like everyone else in this stupid ca-” the door closed off Myrtle's whining.

The majority of the pupils were still outside, and their merry voices and laughter fluttered through the front doors and echoed inside the spacious Entrance Hall. Somebody called his name.

Ginny.

Dean holding her hand.

Ginny.

Harry descended the Grand Staircase and joined them.

“Are you alright, Harry?”

He nodded numbly at her.

“I just wanted to talk to you. A bit later, perhaps?”

“I have a detention.”

“After that, then?”

“It'll be late.”

“I'll stay up and wait for you in the Common Room, alright?”

“Hey, hey, hold it there!” Dean laughed nervously. “I'm your boyfriend, Ginny, remember?”

“It's not a date, Dean,” Ginny snapped, “Can't you let me have a single conversation without overreacting for once?”

Dean released her hand unconsciously and there was an awkward silence.

“I've got to go,” Harry said finally.

“Wait,” she sought out his eyes. “I'll see you around, Harry.”

His stony expression didn't change.

“Take care, Ginny.”


	4. On Thursday the Dead Stars Shine

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON THURSDAY THE DEAD STARS SHINE**

_"And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also." Genesis 1:16_

Dumbledore was a fool. Snape didn't care that the man was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot among other things on the endless list of laudatory titles. The Headmaster and the previous Minister had been the perfect match: just as Fudge was nearsighted and mistrustful, Dumbledore – farsighted and completely unable to believe things were going downhill under his very nose. It was always the bigger picture, grand schemes and greater good; he was above the little things that mattered, quite literally. He did return to earth once in a while after those little things had accumulated into an avalanche and a near-disaster dropped on his head. Dumbledore was good at derailing oncoming cataclysms. Most of the time.

Snape knew he was angry and doing the Headmaster injustice. If there were the ideal... leader, for want of a better word, for them in these dark days, then Dumbledore fit the role perfectly. And it wasn't just his formidable power of mind and spirit that compelled people to trust his guidance – he cared profoundly for those around him, and, unlike the Dark Lord's subservient bootlickers, Dumbledore's followers retained their free-will and the right to back out at any moment. They weren't obliged or manipulated; Dumbledore was too much of a humanist to deprive them of a choice. However, humanist or not, fool or just foolish on occasion, the Headmaster had his blind spots.

It was at times like these, when everything, except the execution of the next plan, next encounter, next whatever, was moved to Dumbledore's peripheral vision, that Snape was filled with consternation. This evening more so than usual.

Skiving, drinking, fights, avoiding friends – he didn't need to be told the signs of self-destructive behaviour, having had a first-hand experience, and he knew what lay at the end of that road. Dumbledore's light dismissal of yesterday’s incident only worsened the matter, and Snape was truly afraid that it could've triggered the avalanche because if there was any father figure or mentor in Potter's life, much like his own, it was Dumbledore. But the one person, who could and should have saved the boy from himself, had brushed him off when Potter had needed him most. The change from the remorse and silent plea to resignation and apathy in the boy's face had been a perturbing sight to watch.

So here he was, standing before McGonagall, an hour after Potter had failed to show up for his detention once again.

“Miss Granger came up to me today and expressed her worries over Mr. Potter. She was afraid he might... do himself harm,” McGonagall cleared her throat to muffle the uncharacteristic tremor in her voice. “You do not think this is a possibility, Severus?”

He didn't fail to notice her phrasing. “I do not know. Nevertheless, I do agree that the boy must be sought out and spoken to. The sooner, the better.”

McGonagall sighed and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. “The night rounds start in two hours, I don't see why we shouldn't begin early today.”

Snape nodded. “I'll take the grounds.”

He turned around but McGonagall's hand on his shoulder stopped him and he glanced at her askance. For an instant she looked like she wanted to say something, but then just smiled tremulously and gave him a push out of her office.

***

There was wind, shaking furiously, the tall pine-trees. There were clouds, obscuring the pallid moon now and then and altering the phantasmal shadows of the Forest. There was no time, only an intense dread that would not be kept at bay, no matter how hard Harry tried to focus his senses on the sounds and sights of the night to debar that bone-chilling terror from entering conscious thoughts.

You can use the Prefects Bathroom – Cedric smiled and evaporated in a green smoke that writhed and curled, taking the shape of the Basilisk. Ginny was holding the hand of Tom Riddle, while he carved his later alias into Harry's flesh, drawing blood with the deliberateness of a Spanish Inquisitor. His mouth was opened in an anguished scream but no sound came out; he was trapped in a stone cupboard, thrashing against the concrete walls and shattering silently. You can come and live with me, Harry, Sirius smiled. You can come, Harry.

He seemed to have arrived at some surreal incubus. He listened yet heard nothing. He watched yet saw nothing. He was cocooned in a world abuzz with mirages that his mind kept spewing forth.

Ron stuffed a whole potato in his mouth, and Hermione smacked his arm, while Harry laughed at their antics.

Ginny waved at him, grinning, and he waded through the crowd towards her, the Quidditch Cup in his hand.

He wasn't entirely sure of being present. Had he ever been? The reality was an illusion. And the illusion was a verisimilitude of reality – self-delusion: nobody would come and take the little boy away, as he lay dreaming of flying motorbikes and green light. Wintry looks and acid remarks. Go back to the cupboard.

Harry's fingers slid up and down the length of the rope and he tilted his head back. The sky had lost its impenetrable blackness and the dark blue tinge told of the morning approaching.

It was time.

The thought sent his muzzy mind into complete frenzy: millions of thoughts, panicked thoughts, no thoughts, dead people, alive people, care, didn't care.

He dimly registered that his body was moving on its own volition: the right leg on a broken branch that protruded from the tree-trunk, the arms enclosing the thick bole to pull his body up. His hands shook so terribly that the rope almost slipped out of his grasp, and his stiff fingers seemed to have forgotten how to function properly, as he fumbled to fasten the line securely on a bough.

Cedric, sprawled on the ground: kill the spare. You can come, Harry.

His knees turned into gelatine and violent shivers assailed his whole body.

Sirius brooding in the living room. Do you have to go? One day we'll be a proper family, Harry.

One bight, another. Coil, coil, coil. Through the top loop. Tighten up.

I couldn't help it, Harry, Tom made me do it. I know, Ginny.

Jerky spasms contracted his right calf and he almost lost his balance, tumbling down from the tree. Harry pressed his back against the uneven bark, panting.

It was just a step. One step. The dead were waiting. The dead were where he belonged.

He slid the noose over his head and tightened it.

Ginny had waited for him. Was she still?

The noose was too tight, pressing painfully against the windpipe; he could hardly breathe.

Ginny waited for him. The silly little boy wanted to be waited for.

But Harry was not there.

Harry was not present.

Harry was not.


	5. On Friday the Beast is Steadfast

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON FRIDAY THE BEAST IS STEADFAST**

_"And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth (..): and God saw that it was good." Genesis 1:21_

Sleep was refusing to claim him, and Snape tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot – now it was too hot or too cold, then he was thirsty, his side itched, his head hurt, and all the while he could not get Potter out of his mind.

Five hours of fruitless search had left him uptight and restless. He had even got Hagrid looking in the Forbidden Forest on the pretext that he had heard “some wayward student jazzing around, while gathering hellebore roots”. Even if he let his guard down a little around McGonagall and Dumbledore, it didn't mean he was going to suffer everyone else to know that he was... concerned about Potter, to put it mildly.

Five bloody hours and his legs felt like parting from his torso any moment. And after the daily Prefect reports from Granger and Weasley, McGonagall was just as empty-handed as he was: no sign of Potter either inside or outside the castle. She had, of course, assured him that Potter would have to come back eventually from wherever he was. Dumbledore would see reason, or she would make him to, and talk to the boy or find him a professional if the case was indeed as bad as Snape suggested. Needless to say that McGonagall's equally futile efforts and half-hearted reassurances had done nothing for his edgy nerves and he had left her office even more troubled than before.

He did not presume – he knew that Potter had been fighting his inner darkness alone for too long. And whenever alcohol was thrown into the deal, the fiends that were meant to be drowned in the bottle only fed on the self-inflicted despair and guilt, becoming more potent and devastating as the time went on, until succumbing to them was the only option left. Or so it seemed to the one who was wearied and worn out by trying to resist. It didn't matter how courageous, cunning, clever or compassionate the person was; wizard, Muggle or Squib: it was a decelerated suicide from the inside out.

He knew. But he was uncertain on how large a scale Potter was prepared to take it, and that uncertainty was driving him mad.

“Oh, for pity's sake...” He flung angrily the bed covers aside.

He was miffed with Dumbledore; he was miffed with Potter and with himself as always when he felt helpless. Like those terrible weeks before Lily died – that waiting and guessing, all the fear, remorse, and anger, when all he could do was wring his hands and beat his head against the wall, for all the good it did him; or get so drunk he couldn't tell a bubotuber and Acromantula apart.

He had learnt from his mistakes and a bitter lesson it was, too. So tonight he would search high and low and would not back down until he had found the boy and made sure he was safe and sound, at least physically. It wasn't his obligation and he had sworn no oath to either Lily or Dumbledore, it was some unfathomable human impulse that necessitated him to drag his aching and tired body out of bed.

Another couple of hours later, however, his resolution began to falter. He had combed the castle down to the every unused classroom and secret passageway Filch had told him about, the Owlery, the Quidditch pitch, the Black Lake; he had even crawled under the Whomping Willow in hopes that Potter might've wanted to return to the Shack where he had first met his godfather – nothing.

The pale morning light was glowing in the far East as Snape walked along the Forest, his usually straight hair tousled from repeatedly brushing it away from his face in frustration. The tree-line curved revealing Hagrid's hut, when suddenly he heard heaving and rasping noises.

Snape stopped cold and concentrated on the origin of the sound. It was fairly close, he could tell, coming from the briar shrubs. He blended nimbly with the shadows, straining his ears and eyes for any sign of the person that could as well be a Death Eater. It never hurt to be too cautious.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, it was not, however, the outline of a Death Eater's kneeling figure he distinguished-

Potter, on his knees, tugging savagely at his hair and shaking all over.

Snape's first impression was that the boy was sick after another boozing, but the longer he watched him, the clearer it became that it wasn't a hangover nausea that joggled the slight frame.

All of a sudden Snape felt sick himself. Those strangled gasps and moans that put in mind of a wounded animal – such anguish, coming from so deep within that it could not be incorporated in tears and loud screams.

Instinctively, he started forward only to be immediately held back by his rational mind. What was he going to say?

“Good morning, Mr. Potter. I know you feel like crap and it seems everything's going from bad to worse and there's no light at the end of the tunnel, but you can trust me because I have felt like crap too. Know that prophecy, the very same that says that you have to either kill or be killed? By the by, I was the one who overheard it and told the Dark Lord about it, so he hunted down your parents and mucked up your life, making me feel like a wretched son of a gun along the way.”

Oh, very consoling, that.

As Snape stood struggling with himself, another creature had discovered Harry – Fang came lumbering around Hagrid's hut and straight into the undergrowth, where the boy was still kneeling. The dog nudged gently Harry's elbow but received no reaction. Fang whimpered and nudged again and again until his muzzle wormed its way onto Harry's lap. The boy continued to rock back and forth but his groans were quieting down as if he was gradually coming to his senses due to the weight that was pressing down on his thighs.

“I couldn't do it,” the boy whispered, gathering Fang closer to him, as though trying to draw all the warmth he could from another living being. “I knew there was no other way and I still couldn't do it. Such a coward.”

Clogged up sobs rattled his shoulders again but his cheeks remained dry, and Snape stirred uneasily.

“I thought about Cedric and... Sirius... but I was so bloody afraid. And then Ginny... she... I just couldn't. I wanted to. And I didn't.”

He hefted Fang's forelegs up on his lap and was silent for a long time.

“You know, the first time I got drunk was after that damn tournament,” Harry mumbled into the greyish fur. “Nicked Uncle Vernon's brandy and shut up in my room. But I was so sick after that, thought I was puking out my sodding guts, so I didn't touch it again until last year, when all that rubbish with Umbridge, the Ministry, nobody believing that Voldemort was back... and Dumbledore... he just...”

Harry paused, as if it were too painful to think about the Headmaster's abandonment.

“I couldn't deal with myself and then I discovered that alcohol dealt with everything for me. Hermione was watching like a hawk, so I couldn't get away too often, but once in a while I managed to scat and get smashed in the Shrieking Shack, where Sirius... he had been there, so it felt like... I never did get to live with him like he promised, you know.”

“The Dursley’s had to put up with a lot this summer. Fine way to squander your parents’ fortune, getting drunk almost every day, huh? Sometimes Uncle Vernon did seem like he might finally lose it. I hoped he would. I actually wanted him to beat me to a pulp at least if he couldn't work up the nerve to kill me. He never did, though. I tried to provoke him, saying derogatory things – Snape would be proud if he knew what kind of dirt came out of my mouth – but he would just shove me in my room, lock the door and then open it the next morning. Neither of them reacted, when I was drunk, and they ignored me, when I was sober, so I drank more often and talked-”

Snape hissed silently, grabbing the left forearm. White-hot worms were writhing under his skin: he was being summoned.

The Dark Lord. The boy. The Dark Lord. The boy...

He glanced at the swaying forms of Fang and Harry who seemed to be speaking in an almost trancelike manner. The boy appeared to be safe for the time being, whereas he had a role to play, a reputation to uphold, which was crucial not only for his own, but the boy's survival as well. He would send a note to McGonagall if possible. Tell her to speak with Potter, to keep a close watch on him. Very, very close watch.

Soundlessly, Snape removed himself from the scene.


	6. On Saturday the Mighty Fall into Blackness

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON SATURDAY THE MIGHTY FALL INTO BLACKNESS**

_"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him." Genesis 1:27_

The sun was barely up and his classmates were still sleeping. Harry sagged down on his four-poster for the first time since the school-year had started. He felt so tired and empty; all he wanted was to sleep, to black out, to be consumed by the realm of oblivion where memories were obliterated and thoughts – obsolete.

No peace for the wicked, no absolution.

The hangings on the bed next to his were drawn open.

“Harry?” Either Ron had been awake for some time or hadn't slept at all.

They locked gazes, staring silently at each other for several long moments. Then Ron scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Look, Harry, I... do you... want to go play Quidditch later or something? The try-outs are next week, so I thought a bit of freshening up couldn't hurt.”

“I'm suspended from the team,” Harry said tonelessly.

“But I thought Umbridge-”

“It's Dumbledore, not Umbridge.”

“Oh,” Ron looked uncomfortable. “We, um, could round up some of the team and play anyway if you...” he trailed off, when Harry shook his head slowly and lay down, staring at the canopy above.

“Listen-” Ron got up and stepped at his bedside, saying with abrupt vehemence, “Why do you keep on playing the martyr, walking around looking like you're constantly in pain? There's a lot of ugly things going on but this year's better than the last one, isn't it? But you just continue ignoring everyone like we've... offended you or... I dunno what. Can't you just be normal again?”

“What's going on?” Dean's groggy voice broke in.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” Ron said, his eyes never leaving the silent Harry.

“Ron? Is something the matter?” Neville joined in.

Ron had reached the end of his tether and spat angrily, “No, everything's perfect! Everything's just fine!” He whirled around, grabbed his clothes and stomped out of the dormitory, slamming the door shut with such a force that the hinges groaned loudly in protest.

The others glanced at Harry's bed uneasily and disappeared behind the hangings again.

Quiet. Inside and out. The underlying entreaty in Ron's attack had failed to stir him up. Harry had already forgotten, whether he had always been screwed up or had something happened to make him that way. In the end it didn't really matter; it seemed he had been floundering in the mud forever, the bottomless pit absorbing him by degrees like quicksand. And the more he kicked and screamed, the deeper he fell.

Harry lay, unmoving, his eyes vacant and unseeing, as the sun rose higher in the sky and the Gryffindor tower slowly came to life. Footsteps and animated voices flew around, flowed over, never reaching him, never reaching out to the empty shell that had fallen into complete torpor.

Minutes turned into hours, people moved in and out of the dormitory, and Harry dozed on and off, jerking awake at the smallest sound the moment he had fallen into deeper slumber. At one point he thought he heard his name come up and McGonagall talking in a low voice with Hermione and Neville, but maybe he was dreaming.

It was late afternoon when Harry woke up, feeling giddy and broken from the interrupted sleep. As soon as he climbed out of bed, Neville, who was the only one in the dormitory apart from himself, put aside the Herbology book he was reading and said, “Professor McGonagall came in earlier. She said you've got detention with her tonight because Professor Snape's busy.” Neville stared at him pityingly, then, catching himself, blushed and lowered his eyes back to the book.

Harry didn't even change out of the crumpled clothes as he left the Gryffindor tower, other students gliding past him like some insubstantial ghosts. Or, perhaps, it was he – a shadow of a being.

He didn't stop on the first floor, where McGonagall's office was, but continued down the stairs, across the Entrance Hall and down the Kitchens corridor.

“Harry Potter!” As usual, Dobby was the first one to spot him.

“Dobby,” Harry forced out with difficulty, pushing the clingy elf away. “Is Kreacher here?”

“Why does Harry Potter want Kreacher? He sulks and grunts, and insults everyone. Let Dobby do it, Harry Potter, sir, whatever it is you wants. Dobby will be glad to help such a great wizard.”

Harry grimaced. “I need Kreacher, Dobby. Where is he?”

“Kreacher is ordered to tidy up the pantry,” Dobby waved disappointedly at the far-end of the kitchen, and Harry immediately set off towards it. “But Harry Potter, sir, Kreacher is bad. We think he's been stealing from the teachers' supplies. Harry Potter shouldn't-”

He ignored Dobby's zealous warnings and, upon entering the pantry, closed the door, so that he wouldn't be disturbed.

“Kreacher.”

The elf ceased his customary mumbling and looked at him.

“You have to find someone for me.”

“Find someone?”

“Yes. Judging by the way you're attracted to Death Eater scum like Lestrange and Malfoy's mother, it shouldn't be too difficult.”

“Miss Bella and her sister are superior to the Mudbloods that Master-”

“Shut up,” Harry commanded impassively and the elf glowered at him.

“I want you to find Voldemort.”

Kreacher's expression instantly changed to something akin to fear.

“Do you understand?” When there was no response, Harry grasped the elf's shoulder and shook him slightly. “Do you understand? Say something!”

“Master wants to... find the Dark Lord?” Kreacher croaked trepidly.

“Yes. Can you do that?” He shook him again. “Are you deaf? I asked, if you can do that?”

The elf trembled. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” Harry released him. “I just have to know where he is. Find him. And then come back to me at once, got it?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher bowed hesitantly and with a last frightful look at him Disapparated.

Harry straightened up, his eyes glued to the spot where the elf had just been.

The pantry door creaked open and Dobby's head popped inside. “Is Harry Potter alright?”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'm gonna spend a while here and I don't want anyone to come inside. Can you take care of that, Dobby?”

Dobby's eyes lit up. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby will do it and if Kreacher does nasty things, Harry Potter just have to call him and Dobby will handle it.”

He nodded and the door closed again. Harry crouched down and rummaged around the shelves littered with jars and bottles, until his hand collided with a small flask. He sat down on the floor and unscrewed the bottle. The acrid smell of spirits made his insides churn, but he held his nose and took several swallows, his throat bursting into flames. Harry coughed, his eyes watering.

“There's some disgusting stuff,” he mumbled, levelling the flask before his eyes. “Must be Snape's.”

It wasn't difficult to imagine that the revolting liquid could put a surly look on anyone's face. Though, on the other hand, Snape probably didn't need it; having Harry around was enough. A proof of his selflessness: he was going to remove the face of Snape's tormentor from the Professor's life.

“Master.”

Harry hadn't even heard Kreacher Apparating back into the pantry.

“Back already?” he put the flask in his jeans-pocket. There was no need for him to pass out before the destination. “Did you find him?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher bowed.

“Right.” Harry stood up. “Take me to him.”

The elf's bulging eyes almost popped out of his skull. “Master wants Kreacher to-”

“Yes, you daft little shit, that's what I said – take me to Voldemort. You can side-Apparate me, can't you?” He didn't know why Kreacher's hesitancy annoyed him so much.

“Yes, Master, but-” the fear entered the protruding eyes again. “The Dark Lord is a very bad wizard.”

“Oh, and Bellatrix is a fairytale princess, is she?” Harry ground out. “You're supposed to obey my orders. Now Apparate me to Voldemort!”

The door burst open and Dobby fell in. “Is Kreacher doing something to Harry Potter? Dobby heard-”

“Get out, Dobby!” Harry pushed the elf out and slammed the door shut, turning back to Kreacher and saying with a dangerously calm air, “You will take me to the place where Voldemort is. Now.”

The shivering elf couldn't balk any longer and shuffled forward, taking Harry's arm and engulfing them both in the squeezing sensation of Apparation. When the bands around his chest loosened, Harry drew a long breath, glancing around. They were standing on a gravel path in an overgrown garden.

“Where the hell are we? I told you to take me to Voldemort.”

Kreacher shivered even more. “Master said ‘to the place where the Dark Lord is.’”

“What's the matter with you?” Harry shook the small body. “Where is he?”

“In- in the graveyard,” Kreacher choked out.

“Which way?”

“Behind the large house.”

Harry looked up at the contour of a mansion ahead. He recognised it.

“Is anyone with him?”

“Y-yes, the Dark Lord is having a meeting.”

“The more, the merrier,” Harry muttered grimly, then looked at Kreacher. “As of now you don't have a master anymore. Here-” he pulled the jumper over his head and flung it carelessly at the elf. “You're free.”

He left the horrified Kreacher behind and followed the gravel path that curved around the house, taking several long gulps from the flask along the way to steel his resolve because the nearer he drew to the end, the more his treacherous mind wanted to fall back into self-pity. But Harry refused to let his thoughts wander and concentrated on his purpose.

The path angled sharply around the corner and Harry came out on a lawn that sloped down towards the faintly illuminated graveyard where no more than ten black figures stood among the tombs, the light from the bonfire flickering across their unmasked faces.

Harry stopped and inhaled deeply. No fear.

He may have not been able to take his own life but he knew that Voldemort would be more than willing to oblige. Neither could live and he was already half-dead, so he was going to make the man's job a bit easier. Prophecy... was a load of rubbish. Marked as equal. The wizarding world had pushed him up a pedestal he neither wanted, nor deserved. He had always got away by the skin of his teeth, by some lucky fluke. The Chosen One, their saviour pet. He was doing them a favour actually. It was sheer idiocy to assume that he could liberate them of Voldemort, that he had some mysterious power to vanquish the tyrant of the century. He was going to open their eyes and make them realise it wasn't a burden one man's shoulders could bear; all had to work for a common goal. And if someone would later say that it had been a selfish act, then it was noble selfishness, if such a thing existed.

He drained the flask and hurled it in the direction of the graveyard. The glass shattered wetly against one of the tombstones and all faces turned towards it.

“Hey, Voldemort!” Harry shouted, riveting their attention on himself. “Expecting any extra company tonight?”

There was deathly silence. Then Voldemort's hissing voice carried clearly through the night, “Harry Potter. Come to join our party?”

“Yeah, it's a VIP party, I see,” Harry sneered, manoeuvring through the graves and joining the bunch.

“Why d'you think I'm here, you fuckhead?” he slurred, grabbing a fistful of Voldemort's robe who just cocked his head to the side and considered him amusedly.

“Why do you think I'm here, huh?” Harry opened his arms wide and looked at the Death Eaters behind Voldemort's back. No one answered. He gazed up at Voldemort again and spat, hitting him squarely in the face.

“How dare you!” Bellatrix shrieked. “Cru-”

“Now, now, Bella, don't be hasty,“ Voldemort raised a silencing hand, wiping his face. ”Our young hero wishes to make a spectacle of himself, so we'll play nice and slow, the better to enjoy it, won't we, Harry?”

His soft voice was laced with cruel delight, as he pressed his slender forefinger against the lightning-shaped scar. Harry's head exploded, a rainbow of stars erupting before his eyes. He felt his knees sinking into the mossy ground, and he laughed aloud at the pain that was splitting his skull open. He didn't know how long Voldemort maintained the skin contact; he just knelt there for an eternity, laughing insanely all the time.

“Are you enjoying yourself, young Harry?” Voldemort's face swam before him.

Some huge white animal leapt away from one of the Death Eaters who stood the furthest, though Harry wasn't sure his addled brain wasn't hallucinating, and no one else seemed to notice anything, so he tried to focus on Voldemort's indistinct face.

“That's right, young Tommy,” Harry smirked back, panting. “Some cutting hex here, a couple of bone-crunching jinxes there, throw in a Crucio for good measure and – voila!– you won't even need Avada Kedavra. No more Harry Potter to get on your nerves.”

“It would be very discourteous of me, indeed, not to accommodate my guest of honour,” Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted into a smile and he stepped aside. “Alecto. Amycus.”

One of the brutish-looking pair hoisted Harry off the ground, while the other immediately started pummelling every inch of his body. He laughed loudly again, even as the iron fist caught him a number of times in the face, breaking his nose and knocking out teeth. His glasses went flying to the ground and blood pooled in his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

And still Harry laughed, the dissolving sound estranging him from every other sense and drowning out the urge to puke up with the sickeningly sweet taste of warm blood in his throat.

“Rodolphus.”

A thin man stepped forward and wordlessly trained his wand on Harry. At first he didn't feel anything; then there was prickling, rapidly intensifying, permeating the skin and setting his entrails on fire that swiftly spread through his whole body amplifying every ache and hurt thousandfold. His back arched and limbs stiffened as the pain built up to an almost intolerable level, and he would've fallen to the ground if not for the Carrows holding him.

Harry's laughter reduced to a weak, breathless chuckle, tears of pain leaking out of his eyes.

“Bella,” Voldemort gestured at the limp, trembling Harry. “Have fun.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Bellatrix hurried to him eagerly and kissed the hem of his long robe. “Has teensy-weensy baby Potter not had enough?” She simpered at Harry. ”Nooo? Crucio!”

Somebody screamed.

But Harry was not there.

The throat was raw and he gagged on the blood.

Harry was not present.

He threw up.

Harry was not.

“That's enough, Bella,” Voldemort admonished mockingly and the curse was lifted. ”We don't want him to die. Yet. That would spoil all the fun, wouldn't it?”

The Carrows released him and he slumped down on the ground like a boneless sack of potatoes, taking wheezing gulps of air that didn't seem to reach his lungs.

“Pardon, my lord.”

“Resume your place.”

Voldemort stepped around the sick pool and squatted down beside Harry, whispering in his ear softly, “Do you still feel brave, my dear Harry? We are just getting warmed up. My favourite Potions Master has ingenious ways of prolonging and magnifying the pain, while keeping the target conscious. Oh, yes, Severus has always been very adept at bringing diversity to our entertainment methods, have you not, Se-”

Voldemort's voice floated away, but Harry didn't hear him or the shouts and curses suddenly flying through the air. His leaden body lay on the ground, veiled from the pandemonium around him, and he listened, mesmerised, to his own irregular breathing.

“Can you stand up? For God's sake, can you stand up, Potter?”

Someone was shaking him furiously. Harry opened his misty eyes to look up at the white face of Snape. His mind didn't even have the time to register the fact that he had never seen Snape show any other emotion than loathing and disgust, let alone panic, when an invisible force knocked the Professor out of his field of vision.

“Profe...” he didn't have the strength to articulate properly and turned his head to see what had become of Snape.

Multi-coloured curses and hexes were flying everywhere like fireworks, casting their light down on the combatants. Order members, Shaclebolt and Lupin among them, were engaged in fight with several Death Eaters. There was no mistaking Dumbledore's luminescent beard and hair dancing a short distance off. The Headmaster looked terrible in his fury, even as more of the black-cloaked figures Apparated to the graveyard, closing in on the group.

He felt, rather than saw Dumbledore's head turning and the blue gaze landing on him. Gathering the last vestiges of his willpower, Harry opened up his mind, willing, for once, to be saved, to be told that there was hope, that the nightmares would come to an end today. He could already feel the foreign presence and Dumbledore's fierce voice, “Harry...”

A bright orange streak of light ricocheted off a nearby tombstone and hit Harry's legs with the force of a lorry, shattering the shinbones. He cried out weakly, his vision swimming.

“Harry Potter.” Voldemort's low hiss was above him again. “The boy-who-lived-no-more.”

For a second that lasted an infinity they bore into each other's eyes.

”Good-bye, Harry Potter.” The wand-tip dug into his forehead and the mask-like face grinned at him in a grotesque resemblance of a child opening his first birthday present.

”Avada Kedavra!”


	7. On Sunday the Phoenix is in the Ashes

Beta-read by radcliffe23. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made.

 

**ON SUNDAY THE PHOENIX IS IN THE ASHES**

_“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” Genesis 2:7_

Light, green. Footsteps and green, green light. Light, bright, then darkness. Bright, white light. Screams, long and shrill. Drills. Black silence. Silent peace.

“-take Harry and go, Li-”

“-tle more and we-”

“-k and pathetic, Po-”

“-ssibly broken, bleeding pro-”

“-fessor, we'll wait for-”

“-ray was luckily st-”

“-ep aside, woman, you nee-”

“-dles, please, and Blood Reple-”

“-nty of time to reco-”

“-very foolish, but the fault is mi-”

“-les away the Muggles heard your co-”

“-me back to me, Harry.”

Peace. And silence. Silent blackness. Steps, then silence. Voices, then light, white. Footsteps and dim light. Whispers and whisperers in the night. Silence, long and still.

Come back to me.

He blinked. The brightness dazzled him and he blinked again. Foggy silhouettes sharpened into a plain room, and he breathed in the distinctive scent of medicine.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr Potter.”

What was he doing here? Harry stared at the white ceiling and didn't reply anything.

“Do you not wish to know how long your friends have been pestering the Healer in charge, waiting for your awakening?”

“No.”

Silence, long and still.

“You may as well accept that you're neither dead, nor dying, Mr Potter. And the Dark Lord isn't around anymore to gratify any misconceptions your mind has conceived, in terms of whether or not you should live.”

“The prophecy says I'll kill or will be killed. Voldemort will be back,” Harry spat with vindictive pleasure.

“The prophecy doesn't matter any longer. You were killed and the Dark Lord died with you. He won't be back.”

It wasn't as much the statement itself as the barely perceptible sigh of relief that made him glance at Snape. When he did, the Professor looked as cool and collected as ever.

“So why am I alive?”

“I do not know. However, Professor Dumbledore had apparently been working over the years to ensure that the Dark Lord-”

“I don't care,” he pressed his lips together spitefully and turned back to the ceiling.

He could feel the black eyes boring into him. But Dumbledore had left him again. Dumbledore didn't care, so Harry didn't. He didn't care one jot, how or why it was possible that Voldemort was dead. Harry wasn't. He didn't know how to live; he didn't even know how to die properly. He had failed again. A failure. A minus line. Negative of a person. Imbalance and indifference: glassy fragments of a being, dropped and lost, trodden in the mud. Forsaken in the desolate passages of hell. No peace and no forgiveness.

“You're still such a child, Mr Potter.”

What was that in the voice? Sorrow? Regret? Pity?

“No, I'm not.” Harry didn't need any of that and, to escape Snape's exotic display of feelings, he asked, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Dumbledore.”

Snape didn't answer for too long. Harry looked him square in the eye and demanded angrily, “Where is Dumbledore?”

What was that in the face?

“Professor Dumbledore was struck with the Adficius curse that incapacitated him while the battle was still raging.”

Harry's mind refused to wrap itself around the implication. But the dreadful realization settled like lead in his stomach, and suddenly, he needed Dumbledore, needed him so badly. Because Snape wasn't supposed to be sitting there. Snape wasn't supposed to be the one who explained things, who set Harry's thoughts in order, anchored him back to reality when every last solid and stable piece in his life crashed and burned. Snape wasn't the one who was supposed to be in that chair.

“Where is Dumbledore?” Harry repeated, feeling every bit the petulant child and, had he been standing, he would've stomped his foot in frustration.

Snape just watched him silently.

“Where is he?!” Harry all but yelled.

He didn't believe Snape. He was going to turn the place upside down until he had found Dumbledore. Harry sat up, making as if to swing his legs over the bedside but, to his horror, his lower body wouldn't move. He tugged ferociously and one foot dropped heavily on the floor, and remained there.

“Move... you... bloody... things,” Harry heaved, trying to get his legs to work.

“The Healers had to put your legs to sleep temporarily, otherwise the pain-”

“I DON'T CARE!” Harry roared at Snape and launched himself forward, collapsing on the floor as his numb legs gave way beneath his weight. He crawled towards the door, his useless extremities dragging behind. His thoughts seemed to have stuck on one note like a broken record: Dumbledore, Dumbledore, Dumbledore...

“Enough of this, Mr Potter.”

Strong arms lifted him up and planted back on the bed but Harry had no intention of remaining there. Once again he lurched from the bed but this time Snape caught him before he hit the ground.

“Let me go!” Harry thrashed about, punching savagely the person who obstructed his way to answers, to an imaginary salvation. But he was already past the point where sensibility mattered because only Dumbledore could set things to rights again. Only Dumbledore.

“LET ME GO!”

A particularly vicious stroke caught Snape on the temples and he clasped deftly the flailing fists in one hand, pushing Harry down on the bed.

“Dumbledore is dead and buried and there's nothing you can do about it,” the Professor said in a low voice.

No, no. Snape was deliberately lying. Snape's only intention had always been humiliating and hurting him, nothing had changed.

But the truth was implacable and overwhelming; he couldn't withstand it anymore. He felt the fight and anger ebb away, leaving him drained and hollow, and confronted with his own demons again. He was ashamed, he was sorry; he was a thousand things that he didn't want to be.

It was as if an invisible barrier finally crumbled down in him and the pent-up darkness brought the agony roaring to the surface. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Then another. And another.

Snape released his hands and Harry slumped forward, curling in himself. He hid his face in the crook of his arm and stuffed a fist in his mouth, stifling the sobs that broke loose from his raw throat. It seemed the flow would never cease, and he bit down harder, as if hoping for the stinging pain to push the tide back, to lock that vile monster up again. He didn't even know whether he cried because of Dumbledore or because he was so fucked-up and couldn't find a way out.

The bed drooped lower as Snape sat down. “Potter...”

Harry shook his head. A choked sob escaped him, and he buried his head even deeper, as though trying to disappear.

“Potter,” the Professor began again, peeling Harry's hands away from his face. “You'll make yourself sick.”

He wanted to be sick. He wanted someone to come and clobber him out of his mind. To come and bludgeon him to death. He wanted to forget and be indifferent again. But Snape was holding his hands almost painfully in one of his, and all Harry could do was shut his eyes tightly and bite down on his lip, the coppery taste of blood on his tongue becoming more profound.

Pressure at the back of his head forced him to lean forward. He tried to pull back, but strong arms held him fast. Arms, restraining. Arms, holding.

Snape started to rock slowly, keeping Harry's head firmly against his shoulder until the spasmodic sobs subsided to silent tears.

“I knew once...” Snape faltered and cleared his throat awkwardly. ”A long time ago there was... a little boy.”

”He was... different and people didn't understand him, so they avoided him and whispered behind their palms about freaks, and pointed at him. And the little boy grew bitter and angry with the world for out casting him.”

Snape kept stumbling upon words. Harry heard him as if from somewhere afar, somewhere that didn't make much sense. But he listened, the soft and oddly calming voice washing over his stupefied brain.

“Then came a day when the little boy was gifted with something precious – someone who didn't mock him, who accepted him unconditionally. But the little boy was foolish. When he discovered that there was power in his difference, he chose to avenge himself on those who had excluded him from their midst and, in doing so, he betrayed his precious gift. So the little boy grew even more sullen and bitter because revenge didn't taste as sweet as the hours spent in her presence.”

Snape paused.

“Then the little boy did something truly gross and unforgivable. He... retold a prophecy to a madman. And the madman went after the little boy's precious gift, no matter how much the little boy begged him to spare her.”

Harry stiffened and Snape stopped rocking, as if waiting for him to start punching again. But his tears had finally stopped and Harry felt too fatigued to be angry. Hesitantly, Snape resumed his narrative.

“The little boy was alone again and he thought that there was nothing left to live for. He took up drinking on a regular basis. He hid from everyone. He felt so guilty and ashamed that he tried to destroy himself.”

“Why are you telling me this? I don't... I don't want to know.” Harry mumbled, his face still hidden in the Professor's robes.

Snape continued speaking as if there had been no interruption. ”There were two Professors who would not let him, who showed him that a small part of the little boy's precious gift lived on. And when the little boy grew into a man, he swore to himself to atone for his errors. But the man was just as foolish as the little boy, and he couldn't resist resenting the reminder of his mistakes, the boy who came to Hogwarts and looked at him with the eyes of the one whose memory he cherished in his heart.”

“I don't want to know, I don't care...” Harry repeated weakly. “Why-”

“Because...” Snape drew Harry away from himself, a hand on each shoulder. “Look at me, Mr Potter.”

Harry raised his empty eyes reluctantly, and Snape said slowly, emphasizing each word, “Because you too have something precious, Mr Potter.”

The soothing tone and slight squeeze to his shoulders was so fleeting, Harry didn't know whether Snape had really done it. The Professor stood up and stepped away from his bedside, allowing him full view of the doorway.

Ron stood there, his face sombre but eyes bright. Hermione was holding his hand, while kneading a tissue in the other. And-

“Come back to me.” A whisper.

Harry lowered his head and fixed his eyes on his hands. How long had they been standing there? He didn't want to see them. He didn't want them to see him. He was guilty, he was ashamed, and he was sorry, so very sorry.

Steps, then silence. A hand, tracing the side of his face, and a whisper, soft, ever so soft, “Will you come back to me, Harry?”

Warm fingers of life on the cold cheek of the dead. His throat clamped up.

“Y-yes.” A whisper.

The darkness seemed to dissolve in her presence; the icy walls that had incarcerated him, thawed. He leaned into the touch, responding to it like a sunflower to the light, and nodded.

“Yes,” Harry said louder and with more conviction, opening his eyes and turning his face upwards-

Ginny.

**FIN**


End file.
